Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kira
My heart slams so hard I choke on my own breath. I try to look again, try to focus, try to make sense of what I’m seeing, but he disappears behind another car, swallowed by dark and gunfire.
Before I can process it, a gunshot cracks so close to my ear I feel it more than hear it, and one of the men holding me jerks violently, dropping to the ground as blood sprays across my legs. The other tries to drag me backward, using me as a shield.
But Artyom is already there.
He hits the man from behind with a force that feels unreal, ripping him off me and slamming him onto the ground, knee digging into the attacker’s spine.
Another man comes at him from the left, gun raised, but Artyom turns and shoots him in the forehead without hesitation, his arm steady even as blood trickles down his own shoulder, dark and wet.
He’s been shot. He’s bleeding, but he keeps fighting like pain doesn’t exist for him, like he’s made of something that doesn’t break.
“Run!” he shouts at me, blood leaking down his arm, voice shaking but strong. “Kira, now!”
I can’t leave him.
Another masked man rushes out of the shadows, running straight for him with the kind of reckless speed that tells me he has no idea who he’s charging at, and Artyom reacts faster than my eyes can follow, pushing off the car with his good arm and closing the distance in one long, brutal stride.
He catches the man around the middle, driving him backward with so much force that the attacker’s back hits the brick wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, and before the man can even raise his weapon, Artyom’s fist connects with his jaw in a sharp, vicious arc that snaps the attacker’s head to the side.
The man tries to recover, lifting his arm as if he still believes he stands a chance, but Artyom hits him again repeatedly, a relentless rhythm of controlled violence that feels almost terrifying in how precise it is, until the man’s legs buckle and he slides down the wall in a limp, boneless heap.
Artyom doesn’t let him fall fully; he grabs the front of the man’s jacket with a quick, rough fistful of fabric, yanks him back up like he weighs nothing, and slams him against the wall a second time, harder, as if ensuring the fight is completely gone from him.
Only then does he shift his grip to the man’s throat, fingers curling around the sweaty skin just below the jaw, holding him upright with nothing but the strength of his injured arm, the muscles in his forearm trembling from effort or pain—I can’t tell which—and for a heartbeat I see the pure, lethal intent in his eyes, the instinct to finish it right there and end the threat permanently.
But he stops, tightens his grip for a moment, cutting off the attacker’s breath just enough that the man’s eyes roll back, then drops him in a controlled collapse that ends with his skull bouncing lightly off the pavement.
The man is unconscious before his body fully hits the ground, his limbs splayed awkwardly across the concrete like a puppet with its strings cut.
The street finally goes quiet, a terrible silence that rings louder after the gunfire, broken only by the heavy, uneven sound of Artyom’s breathing and the distant echo of sirens somewhere far down the avenue, growing but still too far away to matter.
He sways for a second, just barely, a small unsteady shift of weight that makes my heart seize, and he catches himself with his good hand pressed against the car, his fingers curling against the rough brick as if he needs the support but refuses to admit it.
Blood runs down his injured arm in a slow, steady line, and when he turns toward me, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together through sheer force of will, his eyes go straight to mine, searching, checking, making sure I’m standing, that I’m breathing, that I’m here.
“Come here,” he mutters, voice low and strained.
I rush to him, my hands shaking as I slide under his good arm, supporting his weight as we drag the unconscious attacker toward the car that wasn’t shot to hell.
We shove him into the trunk. Artyom slams it shut, breath hitching as the movement pulls at his wound.
“Hotel,” he says, his voice low and sharp enough that the driver jerks in the seat, eyes wide and unfocused like he’s still catching up to the fact that any of us are alive. “Now.”
I don’t speak the entire drive back. My pulse is still in my throat, my hands still trembling in my lap, the image of that familiar face still burned into the back of my mind.
It couldn’t have been Lucas. It couldn’t. But it looked like him, and the thought makes my stomach drop.
When we reach the hotel, Artyom stumbles slightly as he steps out of the car, and I grab him without thinking, pressing my shoulder under his as he hisses in pain.
“I’m fine,” he mutters.
“You’re bleeding,” I snap.
He doesn’t argue.
We make it upstairs, both of us half-covered in dirt and blood, and the moment the door closes behind us, Artyom leans against the wall and exhales sharply.
“Sit,” I say, already reaching for my bag, where I keep a particularly well-stocked first aid kit. My voice comes out firmer than I expect, the instinctive nurse in me snapping to attention.
He sits on the edge of the bed, chest rising and falling too fast, blood soaking through his shirt, dripping onto the floor.
“Shirt off,” I say.
He gives me a look—something between stubborn and amused.
“I’m not asking,” I add quietly.
That gets a reaction.
He lifts his good arm, wincing as he tries to pull the fabric over his head, but I stop him and gently help, peeling the blood-stained shirt off his body, revealing the bullet wound in his shoulder. It’s not deep, thank God, but the bleeding hasn’t stopped.
I press the cloth to the wound and he inhales sharply, the sound a tight, forced drag of air through clenched teeth, his entire body tensing under my hands as if the pain is something he can physically push back against, something he can out-stare into submission even though the blood is still warm and the skin is already swelling beneath my fingers.
“Hold still,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady, trying to sound like I’m not terrified by the sight of him hurt, but he doesn’t listen.
His eyes stay locked on mine, soft and tired and cracked open in a way I’ve never seen, something raw spilling through the armor he wears like skin.
“You shouldn’t have been there,” he murmurs, the words heavy and slow, like each one hurts more than the bullet did, like speaking is just another kind of bleeding.
“You shouldn’t have gotten in front of a gun for me,” I whisper back, because I can’t say it loudly, not when the truth of it burns through my throat, not when the memory of him stepping into the line of fire is still replaying behind my eyes, because the idea of him not being here—of him not breathing right now—makes something cold and unbearable twist deep inside my chest. His lips twitch then, the ghost of a smile.
I clean the wound carefully, wiping away the blood that keeps threatening to well up again, watching the muscles in his arm jump under the touch, and I stitch him with hands that somehow stay steady even though my heart is racing so fast it feels like it’s vibrating through my ribs, threading the needle through his torn skin while he watches me with that impossibly focused stare.
I wrap his shoulder, check the rest of him for injuries, smooth the bandage into place with trembling fingers until I’m sure it won’t shift or reopen or tear wider the second he moves, and when I finally lean back, breath shaking, his breathing has eased, the rigid tension in his jaw loosening little by little, the darkness in his eyes softening into something quieter.
And for a moment that steals the breath right out of me, he looks…
human, not the man who killed three people tonight, which is something I never expected to see from him.
He sinks back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling at him, and for the first time tonight, I see him as someone who’s been carrying too much for too long.
I sit beside him on the bed.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
He doesn’t answer at first. Then—
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, eyes half-closed but still watching me.
“So are you,” I whisper.
A knock echoes through the room before he can respond.
I tense, but Artyom’s voice softens. “It’s Misha. Let him in.”
I open the door, and Mikhail steps inside, eyes going straight to his brother, the casual smirk he always wears wiped clean from his face. There’s a heaviness there, a seriousness I’ve never seen before.
“What the hell happened?” he asks quietly.
I explain in a low voice while he listens, jaw clenching and unclenching, hands curling into fists at his sides. When I finish, he nods once and moves past me, standing beside the bed.
“You did good,” he murmurs to Artyom.
Artyom rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”
Mikhail glances at me, something soft slipping through his expression. “And you—you handled it.”
It hits deeper than it should.
Mikhail sits with me for a while, quieter than I’ve ever seen him, his elbows resting on his knees as he watches his brother doze, and after a long moment he glances at me, his voice low enough that it doesn’t disturb the room.
“What you did… it’s impressive, you know,” he says, and the words are simple but they land heavier than they should.
“I didn’t do anything,” I whisper back, adjusting the blanket over Artyom’s chest.
“You kept him alive long enough to get here,” Mikhail replies, shrugging like it’s obvious, like this isn’t the first time he’s dragged Artyom out of a mess. “That counts.”
I swallow, staring at Artyom’s face, softer now that the pain has finally settled. “He shouldn’t have gotten shot because of me.”
Mikhail huffs a quiet, tired breath. “He would’ve done it for anyone he gave a damn about.”
“Does he… give a damn?” I ask before I can stop myself.